


without entertaining another thought

by jadedpearl



Category: All For The Game - Nora Sakavic
Genre: F/F, Jean's senior year with the Trojans, M/M, There's some depictions of violence/past trauma/a bit of self harm but it's not too graphic, Trauma, about a team with maybe three named characters, also a bunch of ocs, bc what can u do when you write a long ass fic, honestly who could adjust to moving to california, i wont let you fuckers forget that these books are set in the 2000s, lesbian healing!!, unlearning destructive behaviors!!, unpacking trauma!!
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-11
Updated: 2020-02-23
Packaged: 2021-01-27 13:20:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 19,346
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21392821
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jadedpearl/pseuds/jadedpearl
Summary: In 2008, the Palmetto State Foxes win the Title One Exy championships for the first time in the tournament’s history. Following the shut down of Castle Evermore, The Edgar Allen Ravens are barred from playing games until spring playoffs. And Jean Moreau, backliner and former member of Riko Moriyama’s perfect court, not-so-quietly joins the starting line up of the USC Trojans Exy team after four years of playing on an opposite coast.
Relationships: Alvarez/Laila Dermott, Jeremy Knox/Jean Moreau
Comments: 12
Kudos: 66





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> One moment I was listening to Ring of Keys and thinking about how healing love is and the next I blacked out and wrote 30,000 odd words about healing, friendship, and growth. 
> 
> Title is from the song A Little Lost by Sufjan Stevens, it's so jerejean it hurts :,) 
> 
> This is mostly written, i just have to finish writing and edit later chapters. Updates should be about every week and a half/two weeks

Jeremy Knox offers to take him to the beach when he picks Jean up from the airport. 

“Now?” Jean asks in disbelief, surprise already disrupting his carefully laid plan of being the same person he already was in the Nest–head down, closed off, shuttered and cold. He’s found that the same survival tactics are applicable to most situations, and learned a long time ago that his was the best. 

“Sure,” Jeremy says easily, switching lanes on the freeway. He grins, shoots a friendly look over at Jean. “California greeting. There’s an exit up ahead, it’s a little out of the way, but–”

“No thank you,” Jean says, clipped and final. He hasn’t been to the beach in years, has avoided it at all costs. The fact that he’ll be so close to the coast for the next year makes his skin crawl. 

He expects Jeremy to argue or even push it, but he doesn’t. “Okay,” he shrugs. “We’ll be driving on the coast in a bit, if you want to look out your window and see the water.” 

Jeremy must notice that Jean, who’s been leaning on said window with his elbow, cradling his chin in his hand and staring out at the passing scenery, leans away from the view and resolutely stares forward, but he doesn’t say anything about that either. 

\----

Similar to the Ravens, the Trojans have a house on campus. Unlike the Ravens, the Trojans actually live there. 

Jean’s first impression is of of two story house that has probably seen better days, but is kept fairly neat. The layout of the first floor is open and lived in, and the second floor houses bedrooms and bathrooms. Everything is painted in shades of white or beige, and there are paint drips on the hardwood floors. Flashes of red and gold are everywhere. 

“I’ve seen pictures of the Exy house at Edgar Allen,” Jeremy says conversationally. “Ours is a little different, but I hope you adjust okay.”

Jean only blinks. He’s been to the Exy house on Edgar Allen’s campus twice, maybe three times, even though technically he had a room there, with a school banner on the wall, and an Exy racket and some textbooks to keep up appearances. 

The Nest, on the other hand, is about as far from the USC Exy house as anything could be, but Jean knows for a fact that it unnerves people when he tells them about it. 

The room that Jeremy shows him is as different as his room back in the Nest. In Castle Evermore, Jean had shared a room with Luke, a stifling coffin of a space that felt like the roof was caving in. Here, it’s a single, shoebox sized with a small closet. It’s enough for a bed and a desk, and not much else. There’s a window facing the front lawn, the curtainless glass showing an unavoidable view that has Jean wanting to crawl out of his skin. 

”Typically, newbies share,” Jeremy says, “But because you’re a fifth year we pulled some strings and were able to get you a single.” 

Jean almost wishes he could just share with someone. Sleeping alone at Abby’s every night, nothing in that dark room but the stain on the ceiling to look at and distract him, had almost killed him. Jean presses his hand to the unadorned dry wall and wonders for the millionth time is this really has to be it, if it’s all really worth it. 

Jeremy clears his throat and sets Jean’s suitcase down with a soft thump. He had insisted on carrying it in from the car after seeing Jean’s wrist brace, and carried it between rooms as he gave Jean the tour. He had even lugged it up the stairs and down the hall to the bedroom, undeterred by Jean’s cool stare and unimpressed raise of his eyebrows.

“It’s actually the first day of practice,” Jeremy says, “But I figured you’d want a day to rest and adjust before stepping onto the court.” 

Jean almost laughs at the idea that a day would be enough, but Jeremy continues, saying, “It’s why it’s so quiet around here. Normally its, uh, pretty loud. Hope that’s okay.” 

“It’s going to have to be, isn’t it?” Jean says, setting his duffle bag on the bare mattress of his university supplied twin bed. 

Jeremy smiles, apparently undeterred by Jean’s blunt remarks and general lack of warmth over the past hour and a half. “I’m heading to the court, but you don’t have to come. Or I can stay here, if you need help setting up.” 

Jean snorts. Even if he hadn’t just sat in traffic for the other man for an hour, the last thing he wants to do is spend more quality one-on-one time with Jeremy Knox. “I’ll be fine here.” 

“Gotcha,” Jeremy says. “Oh! That reminds me! Hold on.” Jean watches him leave, but he comes back less than a minute later carrying a laundry hamper. “I almost forgot. We, the team and Coach and all, made a little welcome gift for you.” 

Jean peers inside to see the plastic basket full, an unopened set of sheets and packaged bars of soap sitting atop other odds and ends. He looks back at Jeremy, who’s still smiling that same smile, all warmth quiet strength. 

It makes him uncomfortable. “Thank you,” he says, unsure and gingerly taking the laundry basket from him, setting it on the mattress next to his bag. 

When Jeremy leaves, after giving Jean a house key and a rundown of the laundry room, Jermy sits down on his unmade made and wonders how he already feels out of his depth here, at a loss and swimming in unfamiliar waters. 

\----

The Trojans must have been briefed about Jean’s state, because while there are some lingering glances over the healing scars on his face and the brace on his right wrist, they don’t say anything at practice the next day.

He’s actually been to USC’s Exy Stadium a few times before, each time to soundly beat their team before taking the championship title, so it’s not as unfamiliar as it could be. All stadiums are fundamentally similar, but the overwhelming amount of color still unnerves him. Jeremy gives him a tour anyway, showing him his locker and gear before ducking back out to join everyone in warmups. 

It’s strange to see his name printed on a jersey in any colors but red and black. Under the letters spelling out “Moreau” there’s a large, gold 29 on the front and back of Jean’s new jersey. Something releases in Jean, and he breathes out, short and sharp. He hadn’t even realized he was holding his breath. He told Jeremy that he didn’t care that he couldn’t have his three, and he meant it. Seeing that the digit isn’t present in his number at all fills him with a dull rush of relief. 

He dresses quickly, the padding a familiar weight on his body. He skips his bandana, still unused to his hair being this short–after Riko, he had to cut it close to his skull to hide where chunks of hair had been ripped out. 

He runs water in one of the taps as cold as it will go, and scrubs his face with it, considers filling the sink and screaming into it. He catches sight of his reflection as he grabs a towel.

A different person might hate their reflection if they looked like him, but Jean has been disassociated from his own body for so many years that he feels nothing but hollow when he looks in the mirror. 

Riko really did a number on him. He always had, but he usually left his face alone, or hurt him in ways that wouldn’t scar. Now he has a crooked nose and a left cheek to show the results of that restraint falling away. Abby did the best she could to minimize scarring, but it’s still impossible not to notice. The ruined skin is not as bad as he thinks it should be under his fingertips. He’s just lucky he kept both of his eyes. The scar running through his right eyebrow says it was a close thing. 

Jean doesn’t think that Riko purposefully went for his number, but maybe he sensed that his “perfect court” wasn’t ever going to happen. 

The thing that Riko never got, Jean thinks, is that he was never going to have a perfect court in the first place, not if he kept breaking everyone on it. 

Jean’s eyes have been empty for a long time. That didn’t really change.

He’ll stop dwelling on the past when he figures out how, he thinks as he presses the towel to his face before grabbing his gloves and helmet off the bench and leaving the locker room. 

All of the new first years did their introductions yesterday, but Jean opts out of his own. He’s most familiar with the strikers, as he’s spent matches blocking them, but everyone else is an overwhelming blur of faces and names that he doesn’t feel like learning. 

More importantly, he’s having trouble adjusting to the Trojan’s play style. His wrist is still healing, and his game is painfully behind everyone’s after months of atrophying in a spare bedroom. The drills are all different, and while they’re not hard, he hasn’t been doing them twice a day for the past four years like the rest of the seniors. That they wouldn’t stand a chance if presented with Raven drills is of minimal comfort. 

It’s also unavoidable that playing by the Raven’s book as about as far from Trojan style as one can get. He’s reminded over and over that this is a team that hasn’t, doesn’t, and won’t get red cards, and it makes him gnash his teeth. 

“I see now why you are all reigning champions,” he says, after he’s reminded not to use excessive force for the fifth time in the scrimmage. 

Xochitl, the third year defensive dealer who had been oh so helpfully reminding him, glares. The scrimmage starts up again, and Jean, gritting his teeth, attempts to keep his plays in check. 

It’s why it stings so much when a first year, also fresh off a team where a certain degree of violence is expected (like it’s supposed to be in Exy) hits Jean’s racket with her own so hard that he feels it all the way up to his shoulder. If he was the player he was eight months ago, he would have kept going like it was nothing, but it sends reverberations through the fractured bone in his right wrist, and the racket clatters to the floor as he involuntarily clutches his forearm. 

“Hold,” Jeremy calls, jogging across the court and pulling his helmet off. “Everything ok?” 

“It’s  _ fine _ ,” Jean snarls, but Jeremy signals to an assistant coach to open to door to the court. 

“Coach,” he calls, and Rhemann gestures for the both of them to meet him at the bench. Jean, seething and ignoring the rest of the Trojans, follows Jeremy across the court to stand in front of Coach Rhemann.

“Are you okay?” He asks first, professional but not unconcerned. 

Jean tries not to show how unused he is to people asking after his well being, and stares at the space just above his ear. “It’s nothing. Just a minor fracture,” he grits out.

“Jeremy told me that you were wearing a brace, but I wasn’t aware you broke your wrist,” Coach Rhemann says, gaze flicking down to where Jean is still pressing a careful hand over his healing bones. He drops both of his arms to his sides, ignoring the twinge of pain that follows. “You should have told us.”

Jean flicks Jeremy an annoyed look before responding. “It is not broken.” 

“Were you worried I’d that I’d null your contract?” 

_ Only a little _ . “I didn’t want to cause any trouble. I knew it wasn’t serious enough to warrant real concern.”

“Somehow, I don’t think of you as the type who stays out of trouble,” Rhemann says, eyes making a quick pass over the healing lines stitching Jean’s face together. 

“It’s not always a decision I have a part in,” Jean says. 

“I’m sure,” Rhemann says, and then tells him in no uncertain changes to change out and see the team’s on staff physical therapist. One of the assistant coaches shows him the way–the PT’s office is actually directly between the two locker rooms, for post game convenience. She feels the bones in his wrist before signing a slip that pulls him off the court for a week, and tells him to ice it and come back after the week is up for stretches he can do to restrengthen the muscles in his forearm. 

Jean spends the rest of practice sitting on the bench with the assistant coaches. He’s supposed to be watching the backliners to get a good idea of what to adapt himself to, but he seethes quietly instead and resolutely decides that he’s never going to be good enough for them, anyway. 

\----

Jeremy is waiting for him outside the stadium, arms crossed and leaning against one of the only cars in the parking lot. Jean had deliberately taken a long shower and taken his time putting his gear away, but by the looks of it, Jeremy has been standing out here the whole time. 

“At least stand in the shade,” Jean says, shifting his grip on his workout bag and moving to walk past Jeremy and go back to the house. 

“We knew that you weren’t coming to us in one piece,” Jeremy says, keys dangling in his hand. “We’re not expecting you to hold out against our strikers.” 

Jean stops with his back to Jeremy and scowls, even though he can’t see. “And?” He knows he’s no match for Trojan strikers but still irritated by it. 

“So stop trying to kill yourself and get better. No one on that court would rather you play in your condition than to get better. I heard you broke your ribs?” 

Jean clenches his jaw. Fucking Kevin Day. “It was months ago.” He turns around, gesturing to his side as if to say See? All better. 

Jeremy opens the passenger door to his car. “Come on, I’ll drive you back.” 

“I’ll walk,” he says, even though the thought of going back alone turns his stomach. 

Jeremy gives him a once over, clinical and quick. “It’s like a hundred degrees. I’d rather not scrape you up off the sidewalk, so you’d really be doing me a favor.” 

He’s already in the passenger seat and twisting the ignition to the car before Jean gets in, twisting to look behind him with his hand on the back of Jean’s seat as soon as the door closes. Jean leans away from Jeremy’s hand, and Jeremy glances at him once, quick, before shifting out of reverse and pulling out into the road. 

For as much as Jeremy seems to be dead set on letting Jean know just how broken everyone thinks he is, he doesn’t appear to have much interest in making him talk to him on the way back to school. Jean, in turn, gazes out at the low LA buildings and the manicured lawns of campus, trying to imagine a world in which he thinks he belongs here. He’s sure it isn’t with Jeremy–he hasn’t seen much, but what he has doesn’t add up–the smiling stranger in the car, the serious, blunt captain on the court, the unflappable PR golden child of the Exy news circuit–which means that at least one of them has to be a front. Jean has some experience with people who flip like a coin once the cameras are off, and if Jeremy is anything like them, he’s not going to be sticking around long enough to figure him out.

When they get to the house, Jean grabs his bag from its spot by his feet and exits the car as quickly as possible. He’s halfway up the steps of the front porch before he hears Jeremy’s car door close and the locks to the car slide into place. Jean leaves the door open for him but doesn't wait around to hear a thank you, instead choosing to head immediately up the stairs. 

When he gets up to his room, he can see Jeremy still in the front yard, talking to, a starting backliner, her hair buzzed close to her scalp. She’s gesturing with her hands, and Jeremy is listening intently. 

Jean jerks away from the window and makes a mental note to get curtains. If he could change rooms, he leave this front facing vulnerable place as quickly as possible.

As it is, though, he didn’t get much of a choice in anything concerning USC. 


	2. Chapter 2

The last couple of days before California live in Jean’s memory as a blur of a dark room and moments of yellow light from the bathroom. “Should we cut your hair?” Abby says, holding an electric razor, and Jean doesn’t remember his response, only sitting in the bathroom staring at the tiles on the floor. Abby’s hands, warm and creased, brushing hair off his neck and the back of his shoulders; Abby silhouetted against the lights of the hallway, bringing him dinner and a packed suitcase. And older ones–waking up to Renee sitting by the bed, eyes closed and holding her necklace in some kind of plea, as if God is suddenly going to take pity on Jean now that someone else is asking Him to. 

Now, Jean wakes up to a room with natural light. No stain on the ceiling. No prayers. No Abby leaving clean folded towels by his bed. Her kindness had been a vice around his chest, and now that it’s gone, he’s having difficulties filling the newfound space.

At the very least, the routine of practice is one that Jean finds himself settling into warily, but with the ease of endless summers before this one that look basically the same. The Trojans rise early, go to practice, break for lunch, and then continue to play Exy until they’re released around five. Everyone’s eager to make the most out of practice without classes in the way, and Coach Rhemann and Jeremy are intent on using the extra time to run new drills and formations with the team. It helps Jean’s learning curve that almost everyone else is learning the drills for the first time, but he’s still lagging behind in a way that frustrates him. 

He’s not used to being a weak link on the court, and the anger in him over it builds until the Tuesday before classes start, when he breaks a racket during morning practice. 

Not his, of course–he’s used a heavy backliner’s racket since he was twelve, and he doubts he could break the solid lacquered wood without real effort. It’s a spare racket, leaning up against the plexiglass walls of the court. Louisa is switching to a heavy racket, and during a break a lighter one gets brought on in case she needs it. They’re doing two-on-twos, so it’s not in the way–Jean and Louisa against Jeremy and Jake. 

Jean isn’t used to this kind of exercise. The Ravens function as a unit, a hive mind. There was no need to practice with such a small team–if you can call it that–when they’re never going to be in this situation on the court. 

“If you want this team to actually win the championships, there will be no need for stars,” he points out to Coach Rheman. 

No one says the obvious, which is that the Ravens used to win championships every year, and they also used to have the biggest stars in the game. Jean could even be included in that—it’s almost silly, how much publicity a tattoo has brought him. Or the removal of it—he thinks that the press would zoom in on the lattice of scar tissue that used to be a three if they could. 

But Riko is dead and Kevin is flying on different wings these days. Little Wesninski thinks he’s found a family worth living for, and Jean is here.

Rhemann tactfully doesn’t say any of this. Only nods and says he’ll consider it. 

Jean glares at the floor as he stalks into the court, slamming the door behind him even though the rest have to file on. He’s not used to this bullshit diplomacy. The Master didn’t tolerate talking back, and a direct contradiction to his orders usually was met with a blow from his cane, or Riko would just strike his leg with his racket. 

Jean doesn’t miss the heavy bruising and sore ribs, but at least he understood where he stood in the Nest. It’s infuriating to constantly have to try and understand what the hell everyone is saying all the time. At least the Nest had rules, even if they were changing all the time and Jean couldn’t keep track. The cycle of orders and punishment was all that really mattered, anyway, and that was a constant.

He still wants to run back, sometimes. 

Two on twos are simple but deceptively challenging. Jean takes his place on the first quarter line, same as always, with Louisa at half court with Jeremy, and Jake at third quarter. The rules are the same, the objective to score as many goals as possible. The lack of goalie makes it a little easier, but they have to run to much more that it’s exhausting. The court yawns huge ahead of him with so few bodies in play. Jeremy is quick, and though he doesn’t match Riko or Josten in terms of speed, he’s still tricky to keep track of—Jeremy’s strength is in his footwork and Jean is having to work to keep up. 

It doesn’t help that Jeremy, Louisa, and Jake have been playing together for years at this point and Jean hasn’t. He’s trying to make up for lost time in a matter of months and while he’s getting closer to bridging that gap, he hasn’t quite got there. His stay with the Foxes blew a hole in his conditioning and he’s not where he’s used to being. He’s forced to rely on passing balls off the walls to Louisa, but she’s not used to the Raven play style and doesn’t catch them like any one of Jean’s old teammates would be able to in their sleep. It’s losing them the match, and Jean hates losing. He’s supposed to be better than this. Jeremy and Jake are a better team than Jean and Louisa, and when the other man scores again, winding the frankly embarrassing point gap between them, Jean yanks his helmet off and throws his racket to the ground with a sharp crack, stalking towards the door and banging on the walls for someone to unbolt it and let him out. 

Louisa and Jake are back at third quarter, so it’s Jeremy that follows Jean, grabbing his arm. Jean shakes him off with a sharp jerk of his shoulder. 

“Jean,” Jeremy calls, a few paces behind. “We’re not done.” 

“You may not be, but I am,” Jean says, glaring through the clear wall and banging on the door again. The rest of the Trojans are doing drills in the inner court, and none of the make eye contact with Jean, clearly waiting for a signal of some sort from Jeremy or Rhemann.

Jeremy furrows his brow, and pulls his own helmet off, hair crushed flat against his temples with sweat. “Are you seriously bowing out because you can’t keep up?” 

Anger courses through Jean, a hot wash from head to toe. “Thank you for pointing out the obvious,” he spits out. “Now I see that we were doing this so that everyone could take notes on my ineptitude.” 

“It’s just the truth right now,” Jeremy says, hands up. “Everyone knows that—”

Jean spins around. “Yes, yes, everyone does know. They know everything. They probably know more than they should. And they probably know that you shouldn’t be wasting your time making me do stupid fucking drills when my striker can’t even keep up.” The words spit out of him faster than he thought they would. 

Jeremy’s expression darkens. “Do not make this about Louisa. She isn’t trained like you. She can’t pick up those shots but you’re still sending them to her. ” 

“Neither are you, and yet look at where we are.” 

“This isn’t about me, either.”

“So it’s about me then.” 

“Who else? Who do you think we’re doing this for?” 

Jean turns away from Jeremy. The spare racket is in his hands before he can think, and it’s snapped over his knee a second later. Heads turn across the court and Rheman’s gaze shoots to Jean. He can see Louisa flinch from across the court, but Jeremy is still standing there with his arms crossed and chin up. His expression is calm when he reaches across Jean’s chest and pounds once on the door. A first year striker runs over to slide back the bolt. Jean throws aside the racket—now in two pieces—and stalks out of the court and across the stadium to the locker room. Jeremy stoops to pick up the broken racket, and doesn’t follow him. 

\----

Jean has a trick for keeping his anger in check. He used to clench his fists, but his nails would cut until the flesh in crescent shaped marks. He used to grit his teeth, and he’s bitten his tongue to the point of blood more than once. Now, when he’s in public, he holds his hands behind his back and pinches his wrist or the flesh of his hand, and lists English adjectives in his head until he can think of something else. He started doing it sometime in his first year in West Virginia, and it’s done wonders in the way of practicing his vocabulary. 

_ Stupid,  _ he thinks, unstrapping his outer gloves and peeling off the thinner, cotton ones.  _ Ridiculous, idiotic. _ His jersey, next. It pulls his sweat soaked hair up at odd angles, but he ignores it.  _ Unbelievably fucking dumb.  _ He doesn’t normally think in English, and the words running through his head are jarring. 

Jean yanks off the rest of his armor and sticks his head under one of the sinks by the bathroom stalls. Jeremy finds him like this, cold water washing over him and giving him a headache. 

He knows he must look ridiculous. He’s still in his shorts and undershorts and sneakers and knee high fucking socks, and soaking wet from the shoulders up. Jean passes a hand over his eyes to wipe the water off and get a better look at the pissed off and exasperated expression on Jeremy’s face. 

Jeremy throws Jean a fresh towel from the clean laundry cart. “Let’s talk,” he says at the same time, voice too tense to really be considered light. 

Jean catches it with one hand and scrubs it through his hair before crushing it against his face. He’s still more upset than he’d like to be in a one on one with his captain. “Ok,” he says anyway, dropping the towel and following Jeremy to sit down next to him on a bench in front of their lockers.

“Did you ever wonder,” Jeremy says after a pause, his voice low and abrupt in the preceding silence, “why we’re practicing this way?” 

“Many times,” Jean says dryly. 

Jeremy puffs out a little sigh. “You’re better at passing than us.” 

It’s not the answer Jean was expecting. “Yes.” 

“That pinpoint accuracy is something we’re missing. It’s what the Ravens have. It’s what Kevin and Neil have. And it’s what we need. We’re so close, and Coach and I believe that once we make that last step we’ll have a team that can win championships.” 

“So, what? You want to learn Raven drills? I could have taught you. It would help you more than this.” 

Jeremy gives him a sidelong glance, and then looks up at the ceiling before continuing. “You didn’t let me finish. We’re Trojans—we can’t become the Ravens just because we have you. I value the kind of team that the Ravens are, but that’s not us.” 

“And?” 

“And this isn’t just about training for us. It’s about training for you, too.” Jeremy gestures his pointer finger between them. “It might be for just a season, but you’re on our team now. You’re not one of them anymore, and if you’re going to be on my line up, you’re going to play with us.” He stands. “If you want to teach us Raven drills, fine. I’m sure it would make us better. But this is a two way street. We learn and grow from other teams, from each other. It’s the Trojan way.” 

Jeremy crosses the locker room, grabs his racket, and leaves, back to practice. A few minutes later, Jean thinks that he can hear the two on two start again. They probably subbed in Alvarez for him, he thinks, as he pulls his jersey off over his head and starts to take his padding off. It’s strange, showering in the empty locker room, and Jean closes his eyes and presses his hands against the cool tiles under the spray of water. The force of snapping the racket had cut through his gloves and his hands ache. 

Practice is ending by the time Jean is dressed back in his street clothes, and he stands in the locker room in a moment of indecision before pushing out through the doors that lead to the foyer instead of the ones that lead back to the court. He grips the strap of his bag and tries to push down the unease in his stomach at the thought of leaving alone, of trekking across the hot LA afternoon by himself. 

He’s just about pushed himself out of a frozen indecision when a voice calls his name. When he turns, he sees that it’s Alvaarez, hanging out of the girl’s dressing room with a hand on the doorframe. “Jeremy’ll be out in a sec to drive you,” she calls. “Just wait for a second.” 

She’s gone before Jean can even feel insulted, and then sure enough, Jeremy appears from the boy’s room, sweaty and unshowered but changed into clean clothes and his bag slung over his shoulder. “Come on,” he says, car keys already in his hand, and Jean follows him numbly out of the building and to his Prius. Ever since that first day of practice, and over the past few weeks, Jean has found himself as an official member of Jeremy’s carpool, a rotating cast that always includes Jean in the front seat. It appears that today will be no different, and the ride back to the house is as quiet as these rides always are when it’s just the two of them. 

“Thank you,” Jean says, after Jeremy has cut the ignition and they’re sitting in the driveway. The words are like in sand in his mouth, and he keeps his gaze trained on the dash in front of him, even as Jeremy pauses with his hand on the door handle. “For the rides.” 

It’s the closest he can get to an apology, right now. 

He hopes it’s enough. 

“Thanks,” Jeremy says, and Jean glances at him to see what’s almost a smile playing at the corner of his mouth. “For taking them.” 

And then he’s out of the car, closing the door gently behind him, leaving Jean in the front seat to pull himself together and join him inside. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm really terrible at writing chapters that are only one scene long it'll probably never happen again lol 
> 
> let me know what u think as always!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *me rubbing my gay little hands together* lesbians, lesbians, lesbians 
> 
> Very brief (like one sentence brief) mention of past abuse in this one, so please watch out for that!

“Thank you for coming today,” Carrie says, taking a seat in the armchair in front of her desk. 

Jean surveys the women in front of him. She’s older, probably pushing retirement age. She’s well worn in the way she settles into her chair, long locs laying flat on her back. 

“It is mandatory,” Jean says, moving a cushion on the couch to sit down. “It’s not like I had a choice.” 

Coach Rhemann had pulled him aside at practice last week and informed him that he was to begin weekly counselling sessions with a USC psychiatrist. Carrie Lawrence, he had informed Jean, would only be taking a few students that year, Jean being one of them. Jean still hasn’t worked out what Coach Rhemann had intended by telling him this. As it stands, though, it’s a Thursday morning and Jean is here instead of practice with the rest of the team. While this might upset someone like, say, Kevin, Jean feels about as in his depth here as he does on the USC court–which is to say, out of it, and therefore the feeling isn’t entirely new or even unwelcomed. 

Carrie inclines her head. “I have seen many students in my career. I appreciate you showing up on time and not giving your coach too much trouble for it.” 

“You talk about me?” Jean asks, leaning back and crossing his legs. 

“Briefly, to get an idea of your situation. Now that I have an understanding of what you might be needing of me, my talks with him will strictly be limited to your attendance.” She pauses. “Does it bother you that we spoke beforehand?” 

“Not really. I don’t think Coach knows more than I would be willing to tell you anyway.” 

She hums. “I suppose I’ll be finding out how much that is.” 

Jean gestures with his left hand at nothing. “Would it really surprise you to hear that I have a natural distrust of adults?” He remembers only after he’s said it that he’s not a teenager anymore, an adult himself. He doesn’t amend his words. 

“No,” Carrie answers him, honest and looking him full in the face. Jean drops his hand, and shrugs, a full fluid movement of his upper body, as if to say,  _ So you see that this is about as pointless as playing Exy without a racket. _

“I don’t expect you to trust me right now,” she continues, “And if I did, I don’t think I’d be very good at what I do.” She leans back in her chair. “So it’s my job to create an environment where you feel that that could be possible. But I appreciate your honesty.” 

Jean tilts his head and tries to think of the version of the story that he can give her, if any at all. Gangsters typically don’t take kindly to loose ends talking to therapists–it’s a huge liability. Jean resists pointing out that it’s dangerous enough already for them both as it is to just be sitting here right now. Trust as it is is a foreign concept to him, but he’s pretty sure that omitting most of his life and personal details isn’t a great foundation for it. 

But at the end of the day, it’s written into his contract that he has to have these sessions every two weeks. If he wants to stay here, it’s something that he’ll have to figure out. 

“Okay,” he says finally. “But I’ve never been to a session like this, so you’ll forgive me if I have questions along the way. 

“Of course,” Carrie says, taking a careful sip of water. “I’ve found that most colleges require their athletes to attend some form of counselling, even if it’s purely in an academic sense. Did Edgar Allen not?” 

Jean snorts. “No.” 

Carrie gives him a considering look. “No, as you opted out of them? Or that there weren’t any.” 

_ Kind of hard to have a one on one when your teammate has to be with you at all times.  _ “I’m sure I would have opted out if they were offered,” Jean says, deciding to give her a shred of truth, “but Coach Moriyama knew better than to have any outside involvement in his players.”  _ Or to let a psychiatrist anywhere near Castle Evermore,  _ he thinks to himself. If any adult with rational thinking and an iota of good intentions had set even one foot in the Nest, they would have noticed something deeply, deeply wrong. 

“But you’re okay with being here now.” 

“I have...a friend,” Jean says, deliberating on the words, “who seems to think that this will help me. And I owe her a large debt.” 

“Does she see it that way?” 

“Probably not,” Jean admits, “But it is the truth. She has helped me in a way that cannot be repaid. So if this is what she wants me to do, then I owe it to her.” 

“That’s not the worst arrangement to have.” 

“No, it is not.” 

“I am grateful to her for bringing you here. I hope that in time, you’ll be here from a personal drive.” 

Jean tips his head to the side. He doubts it. “Maybe.” 

\----

USC is everything that Edgar Allen wasn’t. Jean has spent five years in the states now, but he still hasn’t bought into the American obsession with university. None of the Ravens did–college was about one thing, and that one thing was Exy.

California is different. The Trojans live and breathe Exy, but in such a different way that it baffles Jean. There’s an emphasis on team bonding and Jean is as unused to it as he is intimately familiar. It makes him wary, anxious. More than once, he’s heard a Trojan refer to their team as “family” and it sends a sick shudder of familiarity down his spine. Riko never used that word, but the intention was similar. Become so close that everyone thinks the same, plays the same is the same. 

But at the same time, the Trojans are so different from the Ravens that Jean can breathe, if not breathe easily. He would have left the first day if the similarities outweighed the differences, but they’re easy to see, because the Trojans go to bars together after practice and have teamwide breakfasts on the weekend. They throw frisbees in the front yard and Jake set up a mini golf course in their scruffy California backyard. They study together and listen to music in their rooms. 

It’s all of this–that they’re happy to see each other, or yell at each other through the bathroom door, or jostle each other down the stairs, or lay on each other on the couch watching the Bachelorette. But what makes Jean stumble is all of the things they don’t do together, which is a lot. It’s a hundred little things, and Jean notices every single one. Jeremy driving back to the house to grab something he left; Coach Rhemann sending a freshman to get something from his office. When Renner, a second year goalie, drives alone to get takeout for the team during lunch, Jean holds his breath until he gets back. Jean had stared in bewilderment the first time Jeremy mentioned catching up with an unfamiliar name. It had taken him a second to realize that Jeremy wasn’t talking about someone on the team, and the rush that had followed had been fear or retribution. 

Jeremy has a working set of eyes, so he had probably noticed the blood drain from Jean’s face, but he didn’t say anything at the time, only continued talking after a short pause. 

Maybe that’s why Demottt and Alvarez stand out to him–they’re often together, and although Jean would never admit it, it’s comforting, in a way, to see one teammate and know that another is probably close behind.

At first, Jean only knows who Marcia Alvarez and Laila Dermott are because Jeremy quietly fills him in on everyone’s year and position during warmups. Jean has a hard time remembering everyone, but Alvarez and Dermott aren't easy to forget. Together, they make a formidable defense team–Dermott is a terror in the goal, and Riko might have considered Alvarez for the Raven’s lineup if he hadn’t heard that she had her hopes set on USC–someone who would want to play with the Trojans would never have been the kind of player he deigned to stand on the court with. 

In the past, Jean wouldn’t have concerned himself with them. He knows Jeremy’s stats because he’s marked him more than once in a game, but in most cases Alvarez was Riko’s problem and Dermott would have been clear on the other side of the court. 

Now, though, he’s playing with them, and he’s expected to do in a few short months what everyone else has had years to work on: form a cohesive defensive line. Jean never needed an emotional bond beyond fear and intimidation to play well with the rest of the Ravens, and even though he doesn’t get the feeling that that’s going to fly here, he doesn’t have any plans to trade friendship bracelets with them. 

But still–it's not their game that catches his eye–it’s them. Or rather, it’s them together.

It’s a strange kind of love, Jean thinks, watching Alvarez and Dermott’s linked hands at the breakfast table. Like something from the movies he wasn’t allowed to watch; like something realer than he’s ever seen before. It’s been weeks and it still startles him, the way they touch each other. 

Touch wasn’t forbidden in the Nest, just–absent. The only human contact the push and shove of practice, or the weight of Riko on his legs at night, the terror gripping him and holding him still, hoping it would be over soon. 

So this–this–

Jean doesn’t know how to describe it, but the normalcy of it unsettles him. The way Alvarez twirls a finger in Dermott’s hair when they’re talking, heads bent close together. Dermott’s hand resting at the nape of her girlfriend’s neck, absently running her fingers through her buzzcut as they watch TV. A hand on the hip as they’re cooking up a late night dinner. Hands wrapped around waists, draped over each other. They lean into each other, in the quiet moments. And in the loud ones, too–there are plenty of those. 

“ _ Just  _ what I want to see, so bright and early in the morning,” Julio says loudly after wandering into the kitchen for light breakfast before practice to see Alvarez slumped against Demott as they make coffee. Dermott’s hand is around Alvarez's waist, supporting the other woman. 

“I guess someone doesn’t want coffee,” Alvarez mumbles, eyes drooping. 

“Has anyone thanked your right hand today?” Dermott says, smiling at Julio over her shoulder. “Because I just get sad when I think about how worn out it must be.” 

“Shut the fuck up,” Julio groans, getting a box of cereal labeled JOHNSON’S: DO NOT TOUCH down from the cabinet and pouring himself a bowl. Laila laughs. 

Jean doesn’t eat breakfast before practice, so he’s just sitting at the kitchen table waiting for coffee. He thought he got up earliest in the house, until he wandered downstairs instead of waiting in his room for people to start leaving and found out that Alvarez and Dermott make coffee for anyone willing to be up early enough to drink it. 

“Morning,” Julio says, sliding into the seat across the table from Jean. Jean grunts in return, standing up when Dermott announces that the coffee’s done. 

Most of the Trojans prefer to sleep until the last minute, but there’s the usual rotating cast of characters that wake up early enough for their little kitchen ritual. Dermott and Alvarez first, of course, and then Jean. Julio usually, and sometimes Mike and Soo Bin. Occasionally, Renner, but only if he’s pulled an all nighter, and then someone usually yells at him about it. 

And of course, without fail–

“Morning,” Jeremy yawns, hair ruffled and eyes heavy lidded with sleep. Jean tries to avoid Jeremy, but even he knows that his new captain isn’t a morning person. He’s probably doing it out of a sense of obligation, seeing that he always takes the smallest cup of coffee and stands leaning against the kitchen counter so that he’s facing everyone. Jean finds his dedicated attention and care to his teammates unfamiliar and distasteful. 

He tries to avoid Jeremy, but he still feels the other man’s gaze slide across him every morning, as if he’s checking for something, doing a mental check and coming up clean every time. Jean notices the way Jeremy’s eyes still drop to his brace, like he’s monitoring the situation from afar. 

The morning routine ends with the coffee maker shoved back against the wall and everyone’s mugs deposited in the sink, and then, with the rest of the Trojans living in the house, they pile into cars and head to the stadium. 

It’s been getting easier–or maybe Jean’s getting used to it. He’s found out the hard way that he can get used to almost anything, and he’s almost disappointed that this warm crucible is the same. He had almost hoped that he wouldn’t be able to handle it. 

He knows the drills now. He’s learning their names. He doesn’t want to, but his brain has been trained to pick up the details, in case he’s tested for something he never had time to study. 

But every day is the same, and that’s good. Classes start next week, and Jean is dreading it. As long as things stay the same, he can maybe handle it. He can ignore everyone when he’s changing out, and he can ignore them when he’s playing. It doesn’t seem like he can get out of being casual acquaintances with his teammates, but befriending them would be irresponsible and almost definitely more than he can take. Some of them clearly have other plans, though. 

“Jean!” Alvarez calls as the rest of the freshman join them in the inner court. She

beckons to him with her hand. He jogs over to her warily. Dermott is standing next to her, stretching her hamstrings. 

“Alvarez,” he says, by way of greeting. “Dermott.” 

Dermott rises from her stretch, straightening the sleeve of her jersey. “Laila is fine,” she says. 

“Whereas you can keep calling me Alvarez,” Alvarez says cheekily. “The only people who call me by my first name are my parents, this one here, Jeremy, and God.” 

“O...kay,” Jean says, not quite sure how to respond. Alvarez grins at this. One of the assistant coaches sets the game clock for ten minutes to start laps. Jean falls into rhythm between Demott and Alvarez, close but not touching. 

“How are you settling?” Alvarez asks conversationally.

“Fine,” Jean says, pretending it isn’t a lie. 

“Pretty different from Edgar Allen,” Dermott says, gaze forward. Jean glances at her and gets the feeling that she might not want him here as much as some others do. 

“As much as anything could be,” he answers lightly, instead of what he could say. 

“Mm,” Laila says, and then she falls behind to run with a second year striker. 

“Sorry,” Alvarez says, after a pause. “She doesn’t warm up to new people, so much. She didn’t....to be honest, when Jeremy asked us about bringing you here, she wasn’t exactly your biggest supporter.” 

Jean has dealt with teammates that didn’t want him around for years, so Laila’s cold shoulder doesn’t offend him. “I’m actually kind of relieved that one of you can express a negative emotion about a person,” he admits. “I don’t buy that you all just love each other that much. “

“Look,” Alvarez sighs. “I know the Ravens and the Trojans are total opposites, but I’m sure the basic principle of cohesion on the court is the most important thing in Exy. I may resist the urge to hit Johnson every time he opens his mouth, but we play together all right.” 

Jean smirks. “You want to hit Johnson,” he says, relishing in the thought of Alvarez decking the loudmouth sub that Jean thinks is a waste of space.

Alvarez shrugs. “Sure. He had some things to say about me and Laila when we first got together, but I knocked some sense into him. At least in that he knows when to shut up now, even if it is through some positive reinforcement.” She grins. “Positive as in I hit him.” 

“I got that,” Jean says dryly. “I’m surprised Jeremy lets you, though. He doesn’t seem to like conflict, so much.” 

“No, he pretty much lets me go at it, “ Alvarez muses. “Touches a bit of a nerve with him, I think.” She shrugs one shoulder. “I could probably break Jeremy like a toothpick, but he’s very protective of Laila and me.” 

Jean has seen Jeremy in the showers and knows what he benches, but he privately agrees. Jean has a good few inches and thirty pounds on Alvarez, but even he would hesitate taking her on in a fight. It’s much better to have her on his side, he thinks as they circle up to do stretches. 

Alvarez whispers something to him, about the way Johnson looks away quickly when she looks at him, that makes Jean huff a small laugh. It’s more of an amused exhale, but it doesn't go unnoticed by Jeremy or Laila. Jean watches them out of the corner of his eye where they’re standing next to each other. Laila looks between Alvarez and Jean, assessing, and Jeremy ducks his head with one corner of his mouth raised. 

Jeremy’s smiles are easily won and handed out–most things seem to amuse him. That, or the PR training he’s clearly been put through taught him that you catch more flies with honey. He’s smiled at Jean plenty of times before, and it’s always made Jean look away. They feel sincere enough, but he doesn’t like them being directed at him. 

Jean doesn’t turn away from this one, for some reason. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thought I should mention–I've been through counseling and some therapy on and off throughout my childhood and into adulthood so the scenes with Carrie are pretty much based on my own experiences, which admittedly are different than Jean's. I've done my best to recreate what a typical counseling session is like!


	4. Chapter 4

It’s funny the different ways that Jean and Kevin both reacted to fear, and how it manifested in their lives. 

Jean never thought people actually needed to be woken up with ice water until he met Kevin Day. Learning that fact had been jarring–he’d grown up consuming Exy magazines and news articles, and to suddenly be living with the sons of Exy had been as surreal as it had been cruel. 

Jean will never how Kevin’s sleeping patterns have remained the same through years of abuse, because Jean went from a moderately light sleeper to someone for which the line between sleep is awake is more a spot he hovers on, than something he actually crosses. Falling asleep is as hard as waking up is easy, and the slightest noise has him gripping at his sheets, eyes open and scanning the room for danger.

It’s why he’s up so early–not because he sets an alarm, but because when the world outside starts to wake up, he wakes up too. 

The morning classes start is no exception. Coach Rhemann had given them the day off from practice, but there are still the odd early risers. Jean blinks awake from a fragmented dream of grinning teeth and flashes of red to the sound of the faucet cutting off down the hallway. 

It’s later than he normally sleeps, the sun just rising and casting his room in shades of grey in the early morning light filtering through the blinds on his window as Jean tries to remember where he is, sheets twisted between his fingers. A minute later, he’s eyeing the smooth ceiling of his room and considering trying to go back to sleep when there’s a gentle knock on his door. 

Jeremy is standing on the other side when Jean gets up to answer it, heart hammering in his chest. Jean has changed out in front of him many times at this point, but seeing Jeremy Knox in the hallway at six in the morning while wearing only a t shirt and boxers was not high on his list of priorities for his first week of classes.

“Hey,” Jeremy whispers, hand on the door frame and soft voice still abrupt in the quiet stillness of the house. He’s wearing a loose t shirt and glasses that Jean’s never seen before. Jeremy must put contacts in almost immediately after he wakes up; the heavy frames slip down his nose, and he absently pushes them back up. 

“Do you need something?” Jean asks, uncomfortable in the silence between them. 

“Just wanted to check in with you before classes start,” Jeremy says through a yawn, not making any moves to enter the room. Jean is glad for foot of space between them. “Do you need me to drive you anywhere? I don’t know where your first class is.” 

“I was just going to walk,” Jean says. “It’s early.” Some of his credits didn’t transfer from Edgar Allen (what a ridiculous problem to have, after what he’s been through) so he’s taking more classes than he’s used to this year to graduate on time. 

“I can take you,” Jeremy offers. 

“Okay,” Jean says after a moment’s hesitation. He wants to turn Jeremy’s offer down, but finds that he can’t. He tries to rationalize past his fear–Jeremy’s been driving him to and from the stadium all summer. Maybe being in his car for extra time won’t kill him. 

Jeremy flashes a grin at him. “I was hoping you’d say that,” he says, tapping the door frame once with his hand before pushing off to stand up straight on his own. “I’ll see you downstairs,” he says, and returns to the hallway, leaving Jean cursing himself for being weak enough that he’s agreed to spend more time with the other man. 

  
  
  


….

The first week of classes is both easier than Jean thought it would be and one of the harder things he’s done. USC is bigger than Edgar Allen in both student population and campus size, and it’s hard not to feel like he’s being pulled under and drowned, traveling across campus and sitting in classes, alone without any teammates. 

Jeremy drives him to his morning classes and picks him up at the end of the day. Jean wishes he could tell him to stop, but the relief sinking like a stone through his chest is too palpable to ignore when he sees Jeremy’s Prius idling by the curb in the student parking lot. 

He resents his dependence on Jeremy’s rides, but he still slides into the car when Jeremy reaches across the seat to open the door for him, and then he gets in the car again when they head to evening practice. 

Jean could stop taking getting in the car. He could walk home alone through the California heat. He could go to class alone, go to practice alone, and above all, he could leave alone, if he wanted to. 

At least that’s what he’s going to keep telling himself, until it becomes real. Until then, he’ll just push down the nagging feeling that he’s only trading prisons, and that he’s the one with the key, locking himself in behind the bars. 

The day of the first game of their season, Jean grips the inside door handle from his place in the passenger seat on the way over to the stadium while Alvarez chirps in the back with Jake and Soo Bin. 

While everyone else heads into the stadium, Jeremy leans against his open car door, arms crossed on top of the window, staring up at the red and gold stadium as Jean finally manages to open his car door. 

He’s been to this stadium tens of times, now, spent hundreds of hours here. But he knows the cameras are going to be following him tonight, and there’s a trained part of him that fears taking up the spotlight, afraid of what others will do to take it back.

“You ready?” Jeremy says softly, gaze still trained on the stadium. A slight breeze carries across the parking lot and through the California heat, ruffling his hair slightly. 

Jeremy’s known Jean long enough that he should know that Jean doesn’t respond to pointless questions–but Jean finds himself opening the car door as a form of answer anyway. 

Jean is benched for the first Trojan game so he can watch them play in action against another team–at least, that’s what Coach Rhemann tells him. It’s a somewhat insulting excusing, because it’s not like Jean’s been playing with them for weeks, or seen any of their matches, or played against them several times. He’d like to think he’s got a pretty good grasp on how the Trojans play, at this point. 

The real reason is probably that Rhemann doesn’t want to outright tell Jean that he can’t trust him to keep his hands clean, or not fuck up the defensive line. 

That, and Jean’s hand is still too weak to play–or, he could play, but he’d have to hold back, and Jean only plays all out in matches. Something about the court being the only place he can exert control, can shut down the things attacking him, can see tangible proof that his techniques and strategies are working. 

It pisses him off. He doesn’t want to be sitting here, in full gear, helmet at his feet, watching the game. He wants to be in there, blocking plays and crushing people up against the plexiglass walls, or something. Coach Rhemann is standing next to him at the end of the bench, arms crossed. 

Jeremy gets pulled after the first half. It surprises Jean, because he knows that Jeremy is focused on improving his stamina enough to play full games like the Foxes did, but he appears to be watching the game with steely determination in his eyes, likely looking for weak points. He’s sitting next to Jean on the bench, helmet in his lap, pointing out plays to Jean as quietly as he can over the roar of the crowd. 

It’s a lost effort. Jean can’t remember the last time he didn’t play in an Exy game. He’s still on the starting line up, but it makes him grind his teeth to be watching the Trojan backliners and know that he could be out there, shutting out the other team’s offence the way only a Raven can. 

“You’re not ready to play with us, now.” Jeremy says, still watching the game. “You will be by the next game, so pay attention and try to learn what you can about us before it’s over.” 

Jean says nothing, only leans forward and watches Alvarez through the plexiglass walls of the court. 

They win, of course. The Trojans have been known to lose, but usually not by anyone outside of the Big Three. Jean watches the Trojans file off the court after some very genuine sounding “good game!”s and clacking sticks with the other team. They’re in understandably high spirits in changing out in the locker room. Jean can’t quite bring himself to hate their cheer, but he still doesn’t feel like any part of that victory was his. He has no ownership over how this team does, whether it’s win or lose. 

“Are we–” Johnson starts, before Laila cuts him off. 

“Not tonight,” she says, “But Maria’s having a party tonight that we’re all invited to.”

Jean doesn’t think much of the conversation until the house is nearly empty that night, save for Jeremy and Alvarez, and a few other straggling Trojans. 

“Do you normally have parties after games?” He asks Alvarez, the three of them in the kitchen as she makes grilled cheeses. 

She feigns a look of mild surprise, and looks over at Jeremy. “Sometimes,” she says, probably lying. 

So that’s it. They normally do, but they’re not because of Jean. Under the annoyance and mild offence, Jean pretends he isn’t relieved. 

….

“Come shopping with me,” Alvarez says the night after their win. “You really need to get out of this house.” 

She’s standing in the doorway of the den, hand on her cocked hip and keys in hand. Jean levels her with a cool stare from his place on the couch. He’d been dragged down from his room an hour or so ago to watch a televized Exy game. It’s just ended, and Julio and Soo Bin are arguing over if they should watch the post game commentary. He had been planning on going back up to his room, but now that he’s in the company of others the desperate part of him doesn’t want to leave. 

“Come on, I’ll buy you a slurpee,” Alvarez says, twirling her car keys around and around on her pinky finger. 

Jean can’t help that his eyes dart to Jeremy. Deference has become his default state, bred into his blood and kept there by a cutting hand. He used to think he didn’t bow to anyone, until Riko showed him who he really was, down to the bone. 

But Jeremy isn’t even looking at him. He’s sprawled in one of the mismatched armchairs that are a fixture in the living spaces of the Trojan house, reading a book, a hand pressed above his left eyebrow in a picture of concentration. 

“Okay,” Jean says. There’s things he needs, has needed for a while, but he didn’t want to ask anyone to go with him to the store. Getting up off the couch is harder than it should be, but he doesn’t know if its the depth of the couch cushions, or the weight of his hands. 

Alvarez drives a Jeep that has seen better days. It’s yellow, but it clearly didn’t come that way. There’s sand pressed into the carpet, and a long scrape on the passenger side of the car that Jean tries not to think too hard about. 

“That,” Alvarez says, standing in the open doorway of the car and leaning over the hood to look down at him, following Jean’s gaze, “was Laila’s fault,” and then she swings herself down into the front seat. 

It’s a short drive to the supermarket. Los Angeles is so different from West Virginia that it hurts. Jean misses the trees and the hills. He hates that he misses them. 

At the grocery store, Jean trails behind Alvarez as she crosses items off her list with the pencil behind her ear. If she thinks it’s strange, she doesn’t say so. He pushes the cart and tries to pay attention to what she’s saying about the roster and fall classes, and something about Renner tripping up the stairs that morning, there’s a loose but of carpet but if she can find a staple gun she’ll take care of it, no problem, just a matter of knowing the right person. 

Finally, once her basket is almost full, she turns to him, hand on her hip. 

“You got anything you need?” 

He does. Lots of things, things he maybe should have gotten a week ago, or more. He’s running low on deodorant, and shampoo. He can feel Alvarez watching him as their roles are reversed, her following him around the store. It grates on him, but he’s used to always being watched and the lack of eyes on him has been disconcerting. 

When he’s picking up new body wash, Alvarez drops a package of razors into his basket, the cheap kind that you can’t take apart, and then pretends not to feel the weight of his stare on the side of her head, instead selecting a sparkly bow off a rack and pretending to clip it into her shaved scalp with a grin shot in his direction. Jean can tell that she’s trying to make him laugh and he turns around abruptly. 

Alvarez does end up buying him a slurpee, dashing into a 7/11 and leaving Jean with the car in the parking lot like a dog or a small child. The silence in the car feels oppressive. He didn’t realize he was listening to her breathing when they were quiet, and the absence of it reminds Jean of those long hours in that room, breathing shallowly in the dark as not to tear his stitches. It scares him how much better he feels when Alvarez slides back into the car with two paper cups. 

Jeremy is in the same arm chair, checking messages on his phone when they get back to the house. The late summer sun has set, drawing shadows out onto the lawn. Everyone else has left in their absence, Jeremy a lone figure amongst the plush furniture and TV, still on at a low volume. 

“You didn’t get one for me?” Jeremy pouts when he spies their matching slurpees, phone drooping in his hand. 

“You’re such a baby,” Alvarez says cheerfully, shaking her cup at him mockingly before turning into the kitchen with her bags. 

Jeremy sinks lower into his chair, his book open and abandoned at his feet. He catches sight of Jean standing in the doorway, bag of groceries in one hand and slurpee clutched in the other. “And you got him cherry!” He calls into the kitchen, twisting in his chair. “You know that’s my favorite flavor, where’s your loyalty?” 

Jean doesn’t have to ask how Jeremy knows that flavor Alvarez picked out for him. He’d only had a few sips–the sweetest thing he’s had for years is watered down sports drinks, and the sticky syrup and ice are a shock to his system–but it had stained his lips red anyway. He’d caught sight of it in the rearview mirror, and it mortifies him now that Jeremy noticed, but he doesn’t know why. 

“You look like a vampire,” Jeremy laughs, not unkindly, but Jean turns and stalks up the stairs to hide his flush.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The grocery shopping scene was one of the first ones I wrote for this :,) I think i wrote it a couple of weeks after free slurpee day??


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Progress isn't linear :)

“What do you think about doing press, after tomorrow’s game?” 

Jean, collecting balls off the floor of the court after practice, doesn’t turn his head to raise an eyebrow at Jeremy. He’s not sure if the other man can see his face right now, but he’s pretty sure his silence translates well enough. 

It’s a Tuesday. Evening practice is wrapping up, most of the team already in the showers. The Trojans won the last game they played; they have another on Friday against San Diego that they’re probably going to win as well. They’ve always dominated in the Southwest, and they haven’t left California yet, so their unbroken winning streak is expected, but everyone’s still charged with the energy of it. Jean was put in last game, for the first half–he’d played well with Jake, better with Alvarez, and kept the ball away from Laila’s goal. Jeremy had stood at quarter court for a foul shot, and his eyes met Jean’s, standing on the sidelines, quick and game-intense, before swinging his racket. He’d scored the point.

Jean doesn’t say any of this. He’s not doing press. He did enough of that at Castle Evermore–or at least, he stood menacingly behind Riko for the year in between Kevin’s departure, and his own removal from the court. It’s not like Riko ever let him say anything, anyway–he was just another player with an important tattoo, and his image was all that really mattered. Jean isn’t able to avoid cameras when he’s playing; he’s not exactly keen to sit there and let them linger on his scars, his short hair, his aversion to direct eye contact. 

So he doesn’t give Jeremy a response, just shakes his head and keeps his head down.

Unfortunately, Jeremy knows Jean well enough that he doesn’t fill the silence, just crosses his arms and waits. 

Jean sighs, stands up from his stoop. Jeremy follows him as he crosses the court to dump the balls in the push cart by the door. Laila and Alvarez are near, talking in low voices by the goal. 

“What exactly am I supposed to say?” Jean says finally, turning to face Jeremy. Jeremy opens his mouth, and Jean presses forward before he can say anything. “And don’t tell me you’ve prepared a script. It was intended to be rhetorical.” 

Jeremy chews the inside of his cheek for a moment, and then sighs. “It’s just going to get worse, the longer you put it off.” 

Jean snorts. “Nothing I ever say will satisfy them. You know that.” 

“It’ll be better for you–” Jeremy starts, and Jean really does cut him off this time with a practiced, exasperated wave of his hand. 

“It’s a dangerous game to play, for some peace of mind.” 

“Jean–” Jeremy just won’t let it go, and something inside Jean breaks. 

“Okay, let’s see,” he says, pretending to think with a finger on his chin. “Maybe I give in, I do your stupid interview. Maybe I say something like, I used to be the second son of a French mob boss, and now I go to school in sunny LA and play a sport with a stick, which I was almost murdered over because in most respects, I have been and will always be someone’s property. They let me play now, because I can actually run without pulling stitches. So I would say that I am adjusting fantastically, we played a great game, see you at the next one. How does that sound?” 

It’s more than he should say; it’s definitely more than Jeremy should know. To the other man’s credit, his expression doesn’t change, only blinks once. “Kevin didn’t say,” he starts, before Jean cuts him off. 

“Kevin left me here,” Jean says, the words falling out of him all at once, “to go live a fucking happy life. I did not choose this.” 

He’s said it too loud. Laila and Alvarez, a few feet away and conversation interrupted, look up and towards the disturbance. Alvarez’s eyebrows are furrowed, but Laila’s face is kept carefully blank.

If Jeremy is stung by this at all, he doesn’t show it. 

“Did you ever ask why I showed up here? You just trusted Kevin? All Kevin has ever done is abandon the people that helped him through all the shit he cries to his new family about–” 

“Jean–” Alvarez says, but he’s breathing hard now. 

“And I just supposed to be, what? Grateful? That I was taken out of that place? That I have a future now, except, wait–I don’t, because if I am not good enough at this stupid fucking game then I will be– _ taken care of– _ ” 

The words are failing him now, he’s run out of things to say in English. Is he just supposed to live like this the rest of his life? Translating everything he thinks so that other people understand him? 

“And no one ever  _ asked me _ .” He presses the back of his hand to his mouth in a desperate bid to hold the words in. 

Jeremy puts his hands up, like he’s calming a frightened animal. “Okay, Jean. I won’t–you don’t have to.” 

Jean laughs, short and forced, and gestures wildly with his hand. “Thank you for your  _ permission _ ,” he says, and leaves the court. 

…..

Laila is waiting in the hallway when Jean gets out of his last class of the day. “Hey.”

“Hey,” Jean says, staring at the space above her head. He’d left the house early this morning to avoid everyone, but it seems like they’re going to seek him out, in true Trojan fashion. A girl turns the corner and catches sight of Jean’s scars, staring openly. He ignores her. 

“Can we talk?” Laila says, similarly ignoring the glances people are throwing them. “This is your last class, right? We–Marcia and Jeremy and me–we all got your schedule a while back,” she adds, answering his unasked question.

“Okay,” he says, and follows her out of the building and across campus until they reach a spot on the green that’s fairly empty. Jean never goes here, but the casual way that Laila drops her backpack says that she does, maybe often. 

It’s too sunny, but Jean doesn’t say that, only sits down next to her and squints against the afternoon sun. 

“You should get sunglasses,” Laila says. “Don’t want to get wrinkles.” 

Jean gives her a deadpan look. As if someone like him has any business worrying about wrinkles. He makes a mental note to buy some, though. When in Rome and all that. 

Laila isn’t the type to beat around the bush, or fill the air with meaningless chatter, so she starts talking after a short pause. 

“We pulled a lot of strings for you, you know? But Jeremy would never tell you that, and neither would Coach.” She pulls up some blades of grass. Jean can’t see her eyes through her sunglasses. 

“I guessed,” Jean says, after a pause. Laila nods. 

“I’m not saying all of–that, what happened yesterday was your fault. I’m not even saying Jeremy handled it well.” She smiles, tight and rueful. “But we’re all trying.” 

“I know.” As soon as he says it, Jean knows it’s true. They’re all trying, in their own way. Driving with him, eating breakfast with him, living with him, when all he wants is to get the hell out of there. Even playing with him, when all he wants to do is crush the strikers flat against the wall and be done with it. “I’m sorry,” he says. 

Laila leans back on her hands. “Yeah, me too. I mean that genuinely–I don’t always…”

“Know how to deal with me?” Jean fills in.

“You don’t have to flatter yourself,” Laila says, but she flashes a quick smile at him. “I don’t really know how to deal with anyone. It was actually between me and Jeremy for captain, a couple of years ago. But I told everyone...” She shrugs and shakes her head. “Jeremy was the better choice.” 

“He hasn’t talked to me since practice.” It’s not what Jean thought he was going to say, and he picks at some grass to avoid the implications. 

“Is that an admission of guilt, or something?” Jean shrugs. He isn’t sure what it is himself. Laila sighs. “I mean...not to sound totally clichéd, but it’s only about halfway about you. I’ve known Jeremy for years, and–” She stops, and then starts again. “Anyway. I don’t make a habit of being Jeremy’s mood ring, especially not to you, but he probably feels pretty shitty that he can’t help you right now.” 

“He,” Jean starts, and then can’t think of anything to say. To say that Jeremy hasn’t helped him would be a flat out lie, but somehow admitting that out loud would be worse. 

Laila doesn’t expect him to finish that sentiment, because she continues. “I mean, he’s probably pretty pissed. At you. But also at himself, if I had to guess. And if you wanted to stop moping, or whatever, I’m sure he’s going to be blowing off steam at the court tonight.” 

Jean keeps his gaze trained on the ground. “Thank you,” he can finally manages, and Laila leans back into the grass, her backpack under her head as a pillow. 

“No problem,” she says, and he thinks that she actually means it. 

…..

Jeremy is practicing his precision shots at nine at night. The sound of the ball ricocheting off of the plexiglass is explosive in the quiet air of the court; it’s like a ghost town without the rest of the Trojans here. 

Jeremy looks tiny without most of his armor–he’s just wearing his leg gear and gloves with a pair of basketball shorts and a sweatshirt. No helmet, even though he could probably stand to keep it on with this sort of exercise. His hair, sweaty at the roots, sticks up when he pushes it out of his face to regard Jean, crossing the court to meet him, outdoor sneakers squeaking against the polished wooden floor. It’s funny–he never sees Jeremy like this, up against the goal, coming at him from this side of the court. It’s always the other way around. 

“Hi,” Jeremy says, slining his racket across his shoulders and draping his hands over it, wrists dangling. 

“We should talk,” Jean says gruffly, instead of a greeting. He scowls at the floor as he says it, so he doesn’t really see Jeremy’s expression, but he hears him sigh once, quick and a little surprised. 

“Okay,” Jeremy says, agreeable as ever, even when he has every reason not to be. Jean looks up, and Jeremy tilts his head towards the stands. “I’m due for a water break.” 

So he follows Jeremy out of the court, past the first few sections. Jeremy sits in the seat right next to him, and they both gaze at the court in silence. From the shadowy rows of the stadium, the plexiglass looks impossibly bright, light bouncing up from the reflective wood of the floors and shining on its surface. It’s lit up and golden and it’s different, but it’s always going to be the same. 

“I’m sorry,” Jean finally says, his second apology of the day. It’s the first time he’s managed to say it to Jeremy, but it doesn’t sound new because he’s been saying it up in his head, all the time. “I don’t....I shouldn't have said those things to you.” 

“Probably not.” Jeremy’s taking off his outer gloves and laying them carefully on the armrest between them. “Thank you, though.” 

They’re quiet again, and Jean’s torn between trying to find something to say, and thinking that he really has fucked up this time, if Jeremy isn’t going to talk to him anymore, when Jeremy sighs again, and breaks the silence. 

“You get angry,” he says slowly, “And that’s okay. But I didn’t do this to you. And neither did they.” 

“It isn’t about you,” Jean offers. 

“So stop making it be,” Jeremy says. “I don’t just take care of you, you know. They’re my team.” 

“I didn’t ask you to take care of me,” Jean snaps, somewhat offended that anyone would think he would. 

“Yeah,” Jeremy sighs. The weariness in his voice makes Jean instantly regret losing his temper. Again. “But someone else did. And I keep my word.” 

“Okay,” Jean says. He wants to scream,  _ Enough about Kevin _ . He’s heard enough about him for a lifetime. He chews on the inside of his lip, the words he wants to say held back out of habit. “But I don’t–” He stops, starts again, keeps his gaze firmly on his hands, twisting into themselves, tighter and tighter. “Don’t push me, on that. I’m not going to–I spent enough time in front of a camera. I have enough of that ahead of me. So for this year...” Jean trails off, because he doesn’t know how to ask for things, and he doesn’t know how to say that this is his last buffer before he really has to figure his shit out. Before it all becomes even more real than it already has been. 

Jeremy nods. When he speaks, he sounds so tired. “I’m figuring it out, Jean. I’m not going to make you get in front of a camera, but I have to push you sometimes. I mean, I need to make sure you’re eating, that you’re getting along with everyone. That you’re playing well, and not just the way you want to.” He smiles a little, nudges Jean’s side. 

“Yeah,” Jean says, only because Jeremy likes it when people respond to him, and not because he actually has anything to say. 

“I don’t know what the answer is.” Jeremy leans back on his hands. “I’m probably never going to know, but–we’ve got to work together. I’m probably going to make you do shit you don’t want to do. And you have to tell me when it’s really too much. And if that doesn’t work…” he trails off, and neither of them say what they’re both thinking, which is that it  _ has  _ to work, because it’s this or nothing. End of the line. 

“I want it to,” Jean says, throat dry. It’d be easier if he could stay cold with Jeremy. It’d be easier if he didn’t feel compelled to say what he felt. But it’s hard to sit there and pretend not to care when Jeremy is also sitting there, and doing the exact opposite. It strikes Jean all at once, how Jeremy isn’t afraid to actually let Jean know how he’s feeling. Like he’s opening up, now, scraping Jean up off the floor and baring a little bit of himself in the process. 

“Okay,” Jeremy says. “Okay.” He stands up, grabs his water bottle and his gloves to start heading down to the court. “You coming?” 

Jean stands too. He doesn’t normally practice in his free time, but....

“We have to stop doing this,” Jean attempts as a joke, waving his hand vaguely as he follows Jeremy down the stairs and towards the court. What he really means is,  _ I have to stop doing this. Fucking everything up and then forcing you to forgive me _ . 

Jeremy stops in front of him, and then he’s turning around and catching Jean’s hand between his own, looking up at him from the step below.

“No, we don’t,” Jeremy says low, a quiet intensity cutting through. Jean stares at their hands for a second. His heart stutters, once, and then he pulls his hand away. 

But when Jeremy turns back around and and they continue down the stairs, when he asks Jean to teach him a Raven drill, when Jean is putting his gloves on and grabbing his racket, when he’s standing next to Jeremy and showing him how to flick his wrist at the last second to get the correct rebound–he never stops feeling Jeremy’s hands around his, heat pressing through the thin cotton of his inner gloves–both the weight of them, and the absence.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait–- chapters 6 7 and 8 are all done, so those should come out sooner than this one did, ha. I was kind of stuck on this chapter but I finally managed to sit down and just finish it. 
> 
> Let me know what you think!


	6. Chapter 6

Jean is exhausted. 

On Monday Alvarez drives Jean to a Dairy Queen after class. He tries telling her that he doesn’t like ice cream, but she buys him the smallest option and they sit on the roof of her car and eat them in the driveway.

On Tuesday, Jeremy wants to go to a plant nursery. From what Jean knows, the man has a black thumb and can’t keep anything alive, and why Jeremy wants to spend money on something that will just die is beyond him. They take Jeremy’s car anyway. Jean clearly makes the employee at the nursery uncomfortable, even though he’s just standing there with his arms crossed. He tends to have that effect on people, and he gets some satisfaction watching the man mentally flail under the weight of his cool gray stare. He likes watching Jeremy talk to the man, smile bright and placating, even better. 

Wednesday is more of the same. Laila picks him up from class again, and there are more looks this time. “If these people knew anything, they wouldn’t bother speculating about us,” he huffs on their walk across campus. 

“Of course not,” she says. “I’m me, and you’re...you.” 

“Not a lesbian?” He responds dryly. She laughs, and naps under the shade of a tree while he tries to make sense of his econ textbook. Figures don’t stick in his head the way Exy plays do, and it always disappointed his father. 

Thursday is a blessed respite, and Jean spends most of it studying in his room. Jeremy knocks once to ask if he wants to go to dinner at the Mexican place a couple of miles of campus, but Jean waves him away and he goes without him. 

By Friday Jean is feeling worn out. When Alvarez opens his door without knocking to ask if he’s up to going to the store, he lays his head down on his desk and glares at her out of the corner of his eye. 

“Come on,” she wheedles. “Just a couple of things.” 

“I’m like your little dog,” he mutters, and she grins in response. Jean knows there’s no winning with her. He does not envy Laila as he groans and follows her down the stairs.

“You know how to drive, right?” They’re standing in the driveway, the night breeze cutting against the heat still rising from the pavement.

“Of course I do.” 

“In America?” 

Jean glares at her. He did learn to drive in France, though he technically wasn’t old enough to do it legally. He got his license in the states.

He hasn’t in a while, though. The last car he drove was “his”, gifted to him by Edgar Allen. He wonders if they peeled the license plate off and replaced it, or if they just gave it to their new number three. Some inheritance. “You sure you trust me in your car?” 

Alvarez laughs. “I let Laila drive this bitch. She’s indestructible.” 

Jean doubts it, but he slides in the front seat, puts his hands to ten and two, fingers wrapping around the warm plastic like a lifeline. Alvarez closes his door for him and leans on the open window. 

“So we just need a few things,” she says, holding up a post-it note before sticking it to the dashboard and smoothing the top down with her finger. 

Jean’s stomach almost drops. “I thought you were coming with me,” he says, voice tense. 

“Nooo,” Alvarez says, drawing out the word. “I asked if you wanted to go to the store. I’m staying here and making pancakes. Which you are welcome to, by the way.” She taps the roof of the car. “Be sure to hurry back, we need syrup. And buy Jeremy a slurpee! He likes–” 

“Cherry,” Jean answers, still gripping the steering wheel. 

“Right!” Alvarez throws him a finger gun before heading back into the house. Jean sits there until the motion activated porch lights click off behind her, leaving him cast in the shadows and the orange glow of the streetlights–maybe a minute has gone by, maybe five, maybe ten. 

Carrie is trying to teach him how to breathe through panic attacks. It’s kind of working. 

Eventually, he manages to turn the key in the ignition. The headlights wash the side of the house in bright light, and Jean tries to ignore the pounding in his chest and adjusts his rearview mirror before backing out of the driveway and into the street. 

He knows what they’re trying to do, he thinks as he pulls into the parking lot of the grocery store, and he hates it. 

It isn’t as busy as he thought it would be, mostly other students doing late night grocery shopping. He feels naked as he walks into the store. He feels vulnerable. Everyone’s eyes are on him. The glare of the fluorescents is too bright. The store too cold. He sinks to a crouch in an empty aisle and breaths a few short breaths, head in his hands, before standing back up again. 

It’s the longest thirty minutes of his life. He can’t remember most of it. He’s at the checkout line before he can process it, numbly handing over money and collecting the paper bag. 

He almost forgets Jeremy’s slurpee and has to make a loop around the block to pull into the 7/11. And then he’s on his way home, groceries in the passenger seat, slurpee sweating condensation in the cupholder next to him. He wants to scream with the windows down. He wants to drive into the ocean. He wants to lean his head out the car with his eyes closed.

And then he’s pulling back into the driveway, headlights clicked off, key twisted. Numbly making his way up the stairs and through the front door that is unlocked until the last Trojan goes to bed. He can’t sleep at night sometimes, because of it. This easy life, with unlocked doors and grocery runs and driving and the beach and cherry slurpees. 

About half of the Trojans are crowded in the kitchen, giving Laila shit for burning most of pancakes. Jean is a deer in the headlights when they turn to him and, catching sight of the bag clutched in his hand, cheer. He dimly registers pop music playing as Alvarez dances over to him, taking the bag and patting his cheek. 

“What would we do without you?” She says, pulling out the syrup and sticking it in the microwave. There’s a big table crowded into the dining room, and the Trojans are a blur, pulling mismatched plates from cupboards and haphazardly setting it. It’s ten at night, and they all have early morning practice and homework due the next day, but they’re chattering away and having a family breakfast. 

Jean would like to say he’s gotten used to the way the Trojans live, or at least somewhat acclimated, but it’s moments like these that really kick him in the chest and leave him winded. Before he came here, Jean hadn’t eaten alone in five years, but he might as well have. The Nest had four kitchens and a full time staff that cooked most of their meals. Sometimes they would wordlessly eat together before a match, but never like this. 

“Thank you,” Jeremy says, voice low and at Jean’s side. When Jean looks down, the other man is looking up at him in a way that says that he knows the significance what Jean just did and how hard it was for him. 

“Don’t make me do that again,” Jean says to Jeremy, voice rough with exhaustion. 

“I won’t,” Jeremy says, and Jean believes him.

Wordlessly, Jean pushes the slurpee into Jeremy’s hands. His hand is wet and cold and empty without it, and Jeremy looks down at it for a second before looking back up at him and smiling, slow and wide. “Did Marcia tell you to get this for me?” 

“Yes.” He pauses. “But I would have done it, anyway.” 

It’s another one of those admissions that he never would have made a month ago. Things are changing, he thinks, as Alvarez pushes him into a chair between Jeremy and Louisa, without his allowing it. Things are shifting in a way that he can’t control, but for maybe the first time in his life, it might not be such a bad thing. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I need you all to know that I did research and find out that there aren't really dairy queens in LA as far as I can tell but I didn't want to change it...what can I say, I'm from Texas, so just make the mental stretch I guess lol. 
> 
> This is a pretty short chapter so I'll be uploading seven in a few days to make up for it! 
> 
> Also, thank you for the lovely comments. It really makes me happy to people reading my work so closely. Thank you so much!!


	7. Chapter 7

Laila informs him that the Trojans throw a couple of parties a semester, meaning that Jean is going to have to make it through several before he graduates.

“You could hang out at a diner or something, if you hate the idea so much,” she says. 

Jean knows that the rest of the teammates are going to be in attendance. “It’s fine.” 

It’s not like he hasn’t been to parties before. When he was a kid, before he got shipped out to this country, he and his friends partied all the time. He wasn’t sold to the Moriyama until he was seventeen, and Jean knows for a fact that what he was getting up to in Marseilles as a teenager is definitely more intense than what these college kids have planned (unless one of them surprises him and brings a prostitute.) 

As it turns out, they are tame even by college standards. The USC Exy team doesn’t smoke as a strict rule, something to do with precious athlete’s lungs and Coach Rheman’s apparently brutal practices as punishment. Jean thinks privately that it would be easy enough to conceal it, but when he brings this up to any of the Trojans they level him with hollow stares that have obviously seen the consequences, and he drops it pretty quickly. Anything stronger than the most recreational of party drugs are by proxy off limits, and there’s an unspoken rule that if someone is looking for a crazier scene, they should hit up the baseball players.

That, combined that they only provide cheap beer at parties means that it’s certainly not the all out spectacle it could be. The first one was so early in the semester that Jean missed it, but there’s no avoiding the second one, early in October. 

Jean watches Xochitl and Laila pre-game with shots of tequila in the kitchen, and then tails after Alvarez for an hour, a pleasantly bland beer in his hand as she makes the rounds. It’s an Exy party, and the house fills quickly between the cheerleaders, other student athletes, and the Trojan’s numerous friends. When Alvarez and Laila meet up again after doing the rounds on the first floor once, he squeezes past the crowd surrounding the staircase and down the hallway into his room. It’s at the end of the hallway, far enough away from the staircase that there’s not too much foot traffic. Jean closes his door behind him, sets his beer down on his desk, settles in his chair with a textbook. 

When there’s a knock at his door, Jean assumes that someone at the party has wandered upstairs and is locked looking for a bathroom or an empty bedroom. It’s why he’s surprised when it’s Jeremy, and not some freshman girl too drunk at her first college party. 

“Thought you’d be in here,” Jeremy says. “Can I come in?”

“Yes,” Jeremy says, too surprised to disagree. Jeremy steps past the threshold and closes the door behind him. He’s been in here before, but only to ask if Jean wants dinner, or to make sure he’s not late to afternoon practice–never any real amount of time, and definitely not with the door closed. 

Jean notices a six pack dangling in Jeremy’s hand. “Feeling sorry for me?” he asks, gesturing to the beer and raising an eyebrow. 

Jeremy rolls his eyes. “Of course not. I just figured you don’t like crowds, and I didn’t want you to feel like you couldn’t enjoy yourself.” 

“Not everyone is going to enjoy your little parties, Knox,” Jean says, sidestepping the discomfort in his head that Jeremy knows that about him. 

“I know, but I care that you do.” 

And there it is, Jeremy’s total honesty, that gets Jean so off balance. He says what he means, even if it’ll embarrass him. It’s been disappointing, to learn that Jeremy’s sincere about all the things he says on TV. 

Well, almost all of them. He hasn’t heard Jeremy say it out loud, but Jean notices that Jeremy tends to avoid questions about the Ravens as opposed to actually answering them. There’s a secret language there, hidden in the sportsman-like statements he gives to the press, and Jean is slowly starting to figure it out. 

But Jean can’t say any of this, can’t let Jeremy know how much he throws him off, so he just shrugs. “Your dedication to uphold the title of captain is admirable as always,” he says dryly.

Jeremy grins. “Hey, now. My dedicated self drives you to practice every morning.” 

Jean inclines his head, a quiet surrender. “And I don’t forget it. Aren’t they going to miss you down there?” 

“They’ll be fine,” Jeremy says, sitting on the edge of Jeremy’s bed after Jean gives him permission with a wave of his hand. “They won’t even notice I’m gone.” 

“I doubt that,” Jean snorts, and Jeremy grins at him. “So, what, you want to play truth or dare, or something?” he says, accepting the beer that Jeremy passes him. 

“Hm,” Jeremy says, using the hem of his t shirt to twist the cap of his beer off, exposing a sliver of his stomach. “I’m not sure how constructive that would be–I don’t think I could reasonably dare you to do anything, or force you to tell the truth.” 

Jean snorts at Jeremy’s use of “constructive. “Not everything is a team building exercise.” 

“Isn’t it?” Jeremy says, Jeremy says, lifting his eyebrows as he takes a sip of his beer. 

Jean ignores the shiver that runs down his spine. “There’s more to life than just Exy,” he says, taking a sip of his own beer. His oldest brother, Antoine, had a penchant for brews, always traveling for beer festivals, but Jean’s never studied it properly to know much more than the difference between good or bad. This one is fine enough that he feels comfortable taking another sip–it’s definitely nicer than the canned shit they’re giving out downstairs. Jeremy must have bought it separately. 

“Sure, but there’s no evidence to support that we won’t be a better team if we play sleepover games,” Jeremy says with a quirk of his mouth.

“There’s nothing to support that it will, either,” Jean points out, and Jeremy presses his lips into a conceding smile. “We have no control group.” 

“Maybe not,” Jeremy says, “But you still haven’t said no.” 

“No,” Jean says immediately, causing Jeremy to tip his head back and laugh. Jean watches the long line of his throat over the next swig of his drink, wondering when he started noticing the other man all the time, and wishing it would stop. 

“I was kidding,” Jeremy says, “But really, thanks for mingling as long as you did. I saw you down there, hanging out with Marcia.” 

“You don’t need to keep tabs on me,” Jean says. 

Jeremy raises an eyebrow. “I notice things about you,” he says. “I have to.” 

Somehow it feels like he’s talking about something else. Maybe Jean just thought he had Jeremy’s way of talking figured out, because he’s out of his depth again. 

So he lets Jeremy pull his legs up and sit cross legged on his bed, lets him smile and look into Jean’s eyes, something he doesn’t let people do for any amount of time, acutely aware that he’s not good at hiding anything, deep down, that they’ll see what he so desperately hides with an amount of ease that will just take him apart. They finish the six pack that Jeremy brought up, the alcohol slowly seeping into Jean’s limbs and making them heavy. Jeremy leaves to get more, and Jean pushes discarded bottle caps around his desk, sipping at his warming drink and pushing down whatever’s rising up inside of him. 

“I think,” Jeremy says, returning with more drinks and sitting heavily on the floor, before sliding all the way down until he’s flat on his back, feet firm on the floor, and gazing up at Jean. “You should teach me French– _ swear  _ words.” 

Jean slips from his desk chair to sit lazily on the floor, something magnetic about the back of Jeremy’s hand pressed against his mouth to suppress what Jean can only assume are giggles.

Jean snorts. He could teach Jeremy all sorts of things, but he doesn’t think he will. “I don’t think so.” 

“C’mon,” Jeremy pouts, still grinning, “You know all of ours.” 

“Just look it up, then,” Jean says, more to the effect of being obtuse than any real reason to turn the other man down. He sits up to take another beer, cold in his hand. 

“S’not the same,” Jeremy laughs, still flat on his back and tilting his head back to look up at Jean, eyes crinkling. He leverages himself up on his elbows, clumsily and listing to the side slightly, knocking against Jean’s side. Jean instinctively steadies him with a hand on his shoulder. “Thanks,” Jeremy says, and Jean helps him into a sitting position. 

“You don’t drink much, do you,” Jean asks dryly. 

“We always have early practices. What, do you?” 

Jean pauses. “I used to. For fun at first, and then to forget. Now, not so much.” He grins–not something he does often, but the drink has loosened him somewhat. “You are still the lightweight between us.” 

“That has nothing to do with the frequency at which I drink,” Jeremy says very seriously. “It is just the way I am.”

“Clearly,” Jean says, feeling a sort of fondness in his chest unfolding, and wondering how this is going to feel in the morning. The regret at opening up, even just a little, is staring down at him from the end of a hallway, but it hasn’t reached him yet. 

“Can I ask you something?” Jeremy says abruptly, and Jean clenches his fingers around themselves, fearing the worst, knowing that whatever it is, he probably can’t answer it. 

“Yes?” Jean says, trying to make it not sound like so much of a question. 

“I thought you, and Renee,” Jeremy gestures vaguely with his hands, and Jean only thinks,  _ Oh. That. _ He imagines that this must be a difficult battle for Jeremy: his ingrained nature of not wanting to push boundaries against the open curiosity he seems to carry with him always. The alcohol seems to give the latter a winning advantage. 

“Where did you hear that?” Jean says, relieved that Jeremy hasn’t heard something about the Moreaus, or even the Moriyama, that he shouldn’t have. Well, besides what Jean has already let slip. Thank god he’s not in witness protection–he’d fail every test of secrecy and end up dead. He’s always been better at hiding in plain sight with his own face and name, anyway. 

“Kevin,” Jeremy says, “When he was telling me about you.” 

_ When?  _ He wants to ask. Jean can’t decide if whether or not he wants to know what exactly Kevin told Jeremy about him, mostly for Jeremy’s sake. “In another life, maybe,” he says, instead of pursuing it. “I did...I do like her. But the debt I owe her is too large. I think we both knew that we could never move past it.” 

“I’ve talked to her before, I doubt she’s the type to think you owe her something.” 

“Carrie said that. And no, of course she doesn’t. But I do.” He shrugs. “Anyway, I think she is happy with someone else. We talk sometimes. She’s grown very close with that Reynolds woman.” 

Jeremy hums, plays with a bottle cap that he found on the floor, one of theirs and discarded an hour ago, maybe more. “You don’t like being saved?” 

That’s an easy one. “No.” Who does? “But it keeps happening to me.” 

“You mean Kevin?” 

Jean levels a gaze at Jeremy. “No, I do not mean Kevin.” 

Jeremy’s gaze drops to his mouth, just for a quick second, and then he’s turned away, sliding down until he’s back on the floor, staring up at the ceiling. Jean sets his drink on the hardwood floor of his room and curls his knees up to his chest, pressing the back of his hand against his mouth like it’ll take away the weight of Jeremy’s gaze or the heat thrumming in his veins. 

Downstairs, there’s a loud  _ THUMP _ , and a few seconds later, Jean hears footsteps coming down the hallway before Laila knocks quick, once, more for the formality of it than anything, and then pushes the door open dramatically. 

“Jean, we–” she says, cutting off abruptly when she sees the two of them on the ground looking back up at her. “Oh,” she says, and then clears her throat. “Some asshole just tried to touch some poor freshman girl, and Alvarez is out back helping someone through a breakdown.” 

“Sure thing,” Jean says, standing quickly to leave behind whatever’s in the air between him and Jeremy. 

“You weren’t going to ask me?” Jeremy weakly protests from behind him, bracing his hand against the floor to push himself into a standing position. 

Laila gives him a once-over, clearly taking in his inebriated state. “Well sure, Cap, you’re drunk and five foot nine and a half, but I trust in your skills to throw a football player out of our house.” 

“Come on,” Jean says, already heading into the hallway, and Laila follows him, leaving Jeremy grumbling good naturedly behind them. 

After the football player is thrown out (a joint effort on Laila and Jean’s part that draws quite the crowd) every non-exy attendee of the party seems to sense a tonal shift in the night and they all file out, leaving about twelve of the USC Trojan Exy players standing in the middle of a somewhat trashed den. Alvarez appears from the back yard, and quickly checks the rest of the first floor for vomit or other stray bodily fluids. Finding none, she makes her way back to the den, claps her hands together, and says “Fuck it. We’ll clean this shit up tomorrow. Any objections.” 

Heads turn to Jeremy, who’s leaning heavily against the doorframe, looking like it’s the only thing really holding him up, and quickly shakes his head no. 

“Great,” Alvarez says brightly, crushing the empty can of beer in her hand. “See you fuckers tomorrow.” 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I won't let the foxes not being in this fic stop me from slipping in allison and renee being girlfriends, I simply will not.


	8. Chapter 8

October slips by the way August didn’t, the days starting to run together as Jean continues to adjust to his life at USC the way he thought he never could. He’s still going to practice, still going to classes, still going to sessions with Carrie. 

Towards the end of the month, when girls on campus are starting to wear sweaters even though it’s still eighty degrees outside, Carrie gives him a plant. 

“Um,” Jean says, holding it awkwardly in his hands. It’s so small that his hands are huge in comparison. “Thank you?” 

“You can put it on the coffee table for now,” she says, leaning back in her chair. He does, still not getting it. “I want you to take care of that, for now.” 

“Is this like that sack of flour thing, that Americans use to teach children about sex?” He’s pretty sure he saw that on TV once. Or maybe it was a water balloon. Either way, Jean thinks that he knows what he needs to about child rearing, which is that it’s completely distasteful and to be avoided at all costs. “People like me aren’t interested in children.” 

“You know I try to avoid generalizations,” Carrie says, “but no. I just want you to water it, that’s all.” 

“Okay?” He’s still bewildered. “How much?” 

She shrugs. “You’ll have to figure it out.” 

“And if I kill it?” 

“We’ll cross that bridge when we get there.” 

He leaves their session feeling completely at a loss. He’s still somewhat baffled as he shuffles up the steps to the house. 

He bumps into Laila in the hallway. “Cute plant,” she says. “Didn’t know you liked them.” 

“I don’t,” he snaps, and then sighs, looks down at it. He’s never thought about plants as cute; they’ve always been sorted into two categories–alive or dying. “Carrie gave it to me.” 

“Aw.” 

He gives a cool look of practiced annoyance. “Don’t get used to it. I’ve never had one before. It will die.” 

She rolls her eyes. “You’re such a drama queen. Just talk to Louisa. Her room is like a freakin’ terrarium.” 

Which is why, against his better judgment, he’s standing in front of Louisa’s door, plant in hand, still wearing his backpack and sweaty from his walk across campus. 

Louisa answers when he knocks twice, headphones around her neck, braids twisted into a bun at the top of her head. 

“Yeah?” she says, stepping back and gesturing for him to come in. It’s something Jean isn’t used to. Bedrooms in the Nest were for sleeping only, and people guarded them from others because it was the only place that was even semi private. All of the fourth and fifth year seniors here have their own bedrooms. Even Riko didn’t have that kind of luxury, although that probably had more to do with his sadistic psychopathy than the spatial restraints of Castle Evermore. 

“I don’t know how to take care of this plant,” Jean starts, skipping pleasantries. She raises an eyebrow.

“Well, it’s a cactus,” Louisa says, leaning closer. Jean flicks her a look. That much had been obvious. She pretends not to have seen it. “So it doesn’t need much water. Does your room get a lot of sun?”

Jean shrugs. He’s used to living in a black room with black furniture and no windows. Everywhere feels like it gets a lot of sun.

Louisa sighs. “Just–put it in your windowsill. Water it once a month. It should be fine.” 

Jean looks around. Plants crowd her windowsill and hang from the curtain rod in lieu of a curtain. Everywhere he looks, there’s green. Laila was right. 

“You like them,” he says, not quite a question. 

Louisa crosses her arms. “I’m majoring in botany.” 

“Cool,” Jean says, a little surprised. Most athletes at schools like USC only go to college to play with the hopes of going pro afterwards. Even Jeremy told him that he’s majoring in communications because it left the most room in his schedule to take electives, not because he intended to do anything with it. 

“I’m sorry for breaking your racket,” he says suddenly. Standing here, in this green room so different from his own, the court feels a million miles away. 

“Thanks,” Louisa says, and she sounds like she might mean it. She grins. “I wouldn’t need it now even if you hadn’t. I’ve pretty much got the heavy racket down.” 

He nods. She’s going to be a nightmare in the goals this spring. He can’t wait for her to destroy the new defensive unit the Ravens are putting forth. And no one can outscore Kevin, but he thinks she’d give him a run for his money. 

“I can teach you Raven drills,” he offers. “Rebound ones, I mean. Your passes need work, and we’re never going to win the spring championship without them.”

He expects her to be angry, because it came out harsher than it maybe should have. But she just gives him this smile with a glint of satisfaction in her eyes. “Glad to hear you start talking like we’re gonna win this thing,” she says, which isn’t a no. 

“We will,” he says, surprising himself. As soon as he says it, he knows it’s true. Penn State will be a challenge, and the Foxes are going to have a new lineup that’s as unpredictable as it was last year, but he’s been on a winning team before and he can feel that this one is. “So you should learn how to pass better.” 

“I’ll see you at evening practice,” she says. “Please don’t kill your plant.” 

He manages not to, and Jean is still thinking about it at practice an hour and a half later, stretching with Jeremy before they run laps. 

“I heard you got a plant,” Jeremy says, retying his shoelaces. 

“Nosy,” Jean replies, “But yes. Carrie gave it to me.” 

“I like the visual,” Jeremy says, straightening with a smile. “You, with a little watering can.” 

Jean glares, but it’s half-hearted and Jeremy knows it. They’re both sitting down, everyone on the team stretching in groups of three or four by the entrance to the locker room. 

“Oh, the silent treatment,” Jeremy continues, bent over at the waist and stretching his leg. “Just like the good old days. Sometimes I wonder what would have happened if Coach hadn’t let me pick you up at the airport.” 

Jean, who’d almost cracked and smiled, frowns in confusion instead. “What do you mean?”

Jeremy sits up, rearranges his legs so that they’re both straight out in front of him. At Jeremy’s confusion, he raises a quizzical brow. “Coach was supposed to pick you up,” Jeremy says, leaning forward to touch his toes. “I thought you knew that.” 

Jean paused in his own stretches, says, “But you did.” Not quite a question.

“Yeah,” Jeremy says, “I like to get time alone with new members of the line up, get to know them. And I figured that would be the best time to talk to you.” 

Jean looks at Jeremy’s back, that point in between his shifting shoulder blades where his t shirt drapes. “But?” 

“But he still thought he should be the one to do it. So I had to convince him that you needed a teammate to greet you, and he eventually agreed.” 

“You never told me this,” Jean says, taking his brace off and rolling his wrist carefully, stretching it the way the team’s physical therapist had instructed. 

“Well,” Jeremy grunts, still bent over and grasping his shoe in a stretch, “I don’t tell you everything, you know.” 

“So you don’t hold back when you’re criticizing my game, but you’re suddenly shy about wanting to spend time with me,” Jean says. The tops of Jeremy’s ears are pink, and he bites back a smile. 

Jeremy groans and releases his stretch, sitting back up. Jean makes his face carefully blank in the face of Jeremy’s irritated embarrassment. “It wasn’t like that,” he mutters, stretching his arm across his chest. 

Jean notes the past tense, but only acknowledges it by letting a small smile onto his face. “I think you were misguided,” he says smugly, “We talked for maybe three minutes out of the whole ride.”

Jeremy puffs out a sigh, standing up to stretch his hamstrings, on one foot with a hand on Jean’s shoulder for balance. “I still found it a worthwhile experience. I have to make up for lost time, with you.” 

Jean ducks his head at the warmth from Jeremy’s hand pressing through the thin cotton of this t shirt. “How is that working out?” 

“Somewhat well,” Jeremy muses. “You’re a bit difficult.” 

“Only a bit?” Jean snorts, raising his head again. “I must be getting soft.” 

“I hope so,” Jeremy says, crossing behind Jean to stand at his other shoulder and stretch his other leg.

That night, Jean dreams about the tide, pulling away from his ankles back towards the sea and causing him to sink into the sand. He looks down to see the hems of his jeans soaked up his calf, and then a human tooth floats by his bare foot. A thin strand of blood waves through the water, distorting Jean’s face in the now reflective surface of the ocean. 

“Jean,” he hears, and when he looks up, Jeremy is standing next to him, ankles of his jeans rolled up and untouched by the blood in the water. 

Jean opens his mouth to say something, ask him why he’s here, in this place, and then a hand is on his shoulder and he’s being pulled from the dream and up into his room. 

“You fell asleep with your light on,” Jeremy says, hand still on Jean’s shoulder. “And your door open.” 

Jean peels his face up off of his textbook and turns around, almost disbelieving, to find that he had, in fact, fallen asleep with his back to an open door. 

Jeremy drops his hand off Jean’s shoulder, and Jean notices the absence acutely because all of his senses are heightened, pushing through the dull haze of sleep. 

“You–” he starts, looking up at Jeremy.  _ You were in my dream.  _ He’s usually alone in that place. 

Jeremy looks down at him, concern open on his face. Jean stares into his brown eyes until the feeling his hands return, and then he jerks, pens skidding across his desk. Jeremy takes a step back to give him space. 

“What time is it?” Jean manages to say, turning around to sit facing forward in his chair and sliding his textbook away from him across the desk. 

“Ten thirty, ish,” Jeremy says, sounding relieved. “Everyone is downstairs watching a game. I came up to ask if you wanted to join.” When Jean doesn’t answer, Jeremy places his hand back on his shoulder. Jean looks back up at him. 

“Come on,” Jeremy says, and Jean allows himself to be stood up and walked down stairs. 

UT is playing Louisiana State downstairs. Texas is down three points, and Jean sits down between Alvarez and Mike. Jeremy sits down on the other side of Alvarez, draping his arm across the back of the couch behind her. His fingers hang above Jean’s shoulder, brushing against it ever so slightly. Jean doesn’t turn, only sits up straighter so that Jeremy’s fingertips rest on his shoulder, and they watch the rest of the game like that in muted silence, punctuated only by the soft murmur of commentary and passed bowls of popcorn made by the rest of their team. 

  
  



End file.
